


cosmos.

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Character Death, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you go down to the local bar at about half-past nine, there will be a man in there, sitting at the sticky, beer-soaked and beaten up counter. He's a sad figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cosmos.

**Author's Note:**

> first fic of naficwrimo in which i try to motivate myself into writing sometimes. angsty micheoff for the soul.

If you go down to the local bar at about half-past nine, there will be a man in there, sitting at the sticky, beer-soaked and beaten up counter. His shoulders are hunched over like he's in pain and he's staring into his drink, full as it was when the bartender sat it down in front of him. The bar stools next to him are empty. It's like there's a bubble around him, impenetrable and the complementary color to the rest of the atmosphere in the space. You can go up to him and sit down and look at him before he looks at you. His hair is red and curly and his cheeks are freckled and he has laugh lines, both old and young at the same time. He's a sad figure.

When he sees you, he'll take a swig of his drink, but he'll wince when it goes down. He explains to you in that movement that he buys that drink every day, but it's never for him. His eyes are empty, broken and brown, the color of cognac that has lost its flame.

You can introduce yourself and he'll respond in kind. His name is Jones. You can ask Jones what's wrong with him, because anyone can see how ruined he is, a broken castle unrestored. Jones will sigh, look around like he’s looking for an escape, but he'll start his story.

"I was in love," he'll start. "I was in love with a man and he was in love with me. He loved me, I know he did."

His voice is hoarse, like he's screamed all his life and only just learned how to whisper.

"I don't know what we were, soul mates or whatever, if we were written in the cosmos, cosmically bound, but we were in _love_. He'd wake up in the morning and he'd make me breakfast and then we'd go to work and we would laugh and joke together all day long. We'd go home and be connected at the hip, pressed together on the couch and we'd make love in the Austin starlight, smoggy and fucked." His voice begins to get shaky and thick here, like he's on the verge of tears, but his eyes stay dry. "He always said I was a storm that came into his life and turned everything upside down but..." The laugh he'll cough out is tear-choked and miserable.

"He's gone now. When he left, it was like a storm had crashed through me, ripping me apart. He always said I was a storm, but he didn't account for the rain that would ruin me inside once he was gone."

You can ask about the man Jones is talking about, but he won't tell you. Instead, he'll continue without missing a beat, looking like he didn't even hear you, not even looking in your eyes anymore. "I always thought it was because I wasn't... _enough_. I wasn't nice enough. I didn't make enough money. I didn't have enough tattoos. Meaningless things, petty things. I got kinder--I started to see someone to help, a therapist, and it works unless I get really angry--, I got a new job, and look..." He'll roll up his sleeves, and his arms are inked to hell, black and red and blue and greens, barely any of his skin left until he's just one solid masterpiece. "There's more on my back, on my shoulders. I have ones on my hips. But nothing brought him back. He's never come back. I love him so fucking much and he'll _never come back._ "

Jones will stop talking to you then, but the words he said will never leave your mind. They'll turn in your brain, sharp and prodding, begging you to ask questions. You'll go up to him again and you'll ask about the man, who he was.

"His name was Geoff Ramsey," Jones will say, swirling the drink that is not his around in the tumbler, rubbing his fingers on the edges, flashing the dark ink on them. "He was a beautiful man, tattoos like a prisoner and eyes like a lover, electric blue and kind. He constantly looked tired, always tired, his eyes half-lidded and bagged, his hair rumpled like he'd been woken unfairly from sleep. Geoff loved to laugh, and his was a contagious laugh, hearty and hysterical; getting him to laugh at a joke was so much more rewarding than anything else."

"You talk like a poet," you'll say, smiling.

"He made me one," he'll reply, and he'll turn away from you and you will be left buzzing with more questions than ever before.

You'll go back again, they always do. You'll ask about how he and Geoff met. ("I worked for him. He hired me, and I knew from the second I saw him...") You'll ask if they got married. ("Never did, but we didn't need to...") And the one query that occupies your thoughts the most, the one that begs to escape your lips every time you open your mouth to respond or ask a question, you'll ask if Geoff died or if he left Jones, left him for someone else or if there was a chink in the relationship that brought it all crashing down. That one he won't answer, and you'll prod and beg and he won't tell you, keeps his mouth set firm and downs a sip of the drink you’ve learned was Geoff’s favorite and he will not talk, and if you dig too much he will yell at you and there’s nothing more heartbreaking than this broken, tired old man screaming at you, tears in his eyes and his voice hoarse and shaky and you will leave and maybe you will not come back to bother this poor man ever again.

Maybe.

Maybe you'll snoop around town, visit cemeteries, look up obituaries for a man named Geoff, and maybe you'll find one that fits the description Jones has given you about Geoff and maybe it even mentions a Michael Jones in it, and maybe you'll feel something like a stone dropping in your stomach, and maybe you'll realize that you _wanted_ Geoff to still be alive and you _wanted_ Geoff to come back just like Michael does, and maybe you'll feel a pain in your chest, like your heart is breaking for this man and the love he has lost, has had torn away from him.

Maybe the next day you'll go out and you'll buy Michael flowers, maybe you won't sign your name and you won't say that you're sorry for his loss but you'll give them to him and maybe he'll frown at you and he'll say "fuck you" and then maybe he'll cry. Maybe great, heaving sobs will leave his body and he'll be shaking and maybe you'll take him to the cemetery.

Maybe you'll stand with him in the dark and maybe you'll be chilled to the bone but maybe Michael won't seem cold, but frozen, frozen like a statue as he stares at Geoff's grave and the only thing moving will be the tears tracking down his cheeks. Maybe he'll bend down finally and put the flowers on Geoff's grave and maybe he'll ask you to leave, still crouched and not looking at you, and you'll leave. There's no maybe about that. If this happens, you'll leave Michael Jones with the grave of his dead lover and you will not look back and when you go back to that bar, you will never see Michael Jones again.


End file.
